


Learned With Grace

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Crime origin story, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Napoleon character study, No one knows Napoleon's true story, Some angst but thats pretty much me, except now you do, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: Saturdays at noon: tea, and crime.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111





	Learned With Grace

**Author's Note:**

> spring cleaning ficlets! Hope ya like this one, its been sitting around in my docs for a while

Of all the stories, the one with the Irish old-timer was Napoleon’s favourite. He wasn’t sure how exactly that one came about. To be informed of his own criminal comeuppance in the middle of a kidnapping had been a disorienting situation, but not a negative one. As it led to the non-existing Irish mob boss -- who had supposedly taught him the tricks of the trade -- getting him out of that rough spot with the Ironjays. So really, Napoleon could only be thankful of his imaginary mentor.

It was widely known, due to the loose lips of the CIA, that Napoleon had made his first foray into criminality during the War. The artistic aftermath of the Nazi’s reign left many treasures abandoned in caves and Napoleon was all too pleased to liberate them with a group of like-minded soldiers. But to dip your toes in such endeavours made the olive-green coat of the army ill-fitted and quick to fray at the edges. Napoleon slipped out of its hold the first chance he got.

According to the CIA’s report, it took him five years of bumbling about to make a name for himself. They proudly presented a list of ‘liaisons and relationships’ dated to this time, as the source of Napoleon’s knowledge of the arts of cons and theft. Most of the stories spun thereafter were extracted out of that list, even though half of them were individuals Napoleon never had dealt with— only appeared to have, which was the trick of it.

He supposed that the theories of art-theft gangs or mafioso-mentors made the most sense to Authorities and Criminalities alike, as the idea that Napoleon had come up with all his abilities on his own seemed unreasonable, even for a _prolific_ thief such as him. (Which was, to Napoleon’s great delight, not paraphrased but an exact quote out of the report). So, they searched for communal experience, ways Napoleon could have learned his tricks through the knowledge of many, to reflect the variety of his ability. It was deemed unlikely that only one individual had given Napoleon his training, as he was known to quickly grow bored of people and move onto the next that seemed of interest.

This fluttering nature of Napoleon’s character led many to believe that his learning curve had been forced upon him: a debt of some kind that kept him in place, much like the CIA eventually kept him on the leash to much success. This theory, favoured by the CIA, turned out to be the main argument for the unorthodox program to turn a thief into a spy. It was unsurprising then, that the fundamental fact the CIA had so coveted was entirely and utterly wrong.

There was no large syndicate that trained Napoleon up to become the thief of the century, and there was _definitely_ no force involved at all. All it was— all Napoleon ever needed to learn, was tea and good conversation, from someone who saw within him the next generation.

It was no irish-old timer, though this might have been the closest theory yet. The person who taught Napoleon everything, was simultaneously the first con Napoleon ever tried on his own, and failed miserably. It was the best thing that could ever have happened to him.

———

He spotted the mark incidentally. After roaming around the upscale neighbourhoods for most of the day, it had been his own desire for a change of scenery that gifted him the perfect target.

An old woman was sitting alone on a bench at the edge of the park. She held a bright yellow handbag in her lap and her hair was put up in an intricately braided bun. She was adorned with classy but nondescript jewellery, except for one old ring on her right ring finger which seemed more personal in a subtle way.. The gold band glittered in the last rays of sunlight, its black and white gems casting little shapes on the pavement which the local cats chased with intense determination.

There was something about her that drew Napoleon in. At the time, he’d mistaken it for a burgeoning thieving instinct; the fanciful notion one could _feel_ the potential of a score like one learns to feel the choking sensation of being watched.

At least he knew to pick someone with a stable routine. She came to that same bench everyday, arriving just an hour for sundown, and would stay until the last breath of day had gone. Then she would nod, and shuffle off to her townhouse a few streets to the west.

Napoleon made his move the second week. It had been a hot summer day. What once was a heavy blanket of heat, the evening winds brought only a brush of warmth instead. As always, the woman was dressed to the nines, wearing a frilly white blouse under a sharply cut white jacket with a subtle herringbone pattern. Her trousers were light grey and flowy; they fluttered in the soft breeze.

Napoleon sat next to her wordlessly, allowing the intrinsic peace of the moment to come over them both. He breathed deeply and smiled at the artwork in bright pinks and deep purples; the lowering sun its artist. After a long moment, the woman looked askance at him. One corner of her mouth pulled up. When his eyes met hers, they were sparkling with mirth.

Encouraged, Napoleon pulled a lightly adorned case out of his jacket pocket . He clicked the case open, revealing a set Indonesian cigars. Without asking, he passed one to the woman. The woman took it. She already had a lighter in hand.

“Jonathan,” Napoleon said. A small smile danced on the woman’s face before she took the cigar to her mouth and pulled in a breath of smoke and spice.

“My late husband was born in Indonesia.”

Yes. Napoleon had found a small article of him in a browning paper. A realtor of some kind. They had traveled a lot together. Napoleon schooled his face. “My condolences.”

The woman blew the smoke in a small perfect circle. The ring of smoke floated through the air before dispersing into nothingness. Then she snorted. “Don’t be. He was a liar and a cheat—“ she flicked her cigar dismissively, ash scattering. “Best to be rid of him.”

Napoleon’s eyes flickered towards the old ring for a short moment. It was worn, but not very vintage. Napoleon guessed it to be 40 years old at most, therefore not a family heirloom. The age of it fit it into the timeline of the marriage. And it had traces of daily use and had to have been cleaned regularly. Why keep a ring of a man you did not love? Napoleon took a few pulls from his cigarette to cover up his musings.

The last sun rays disappeared until the bench was only lit by the lanterns that outlined the park’s pathways. The woman took her last pull and nodded. The butt of the cigar went into the trash can nearby, and when Napoleon was about to throw his to the ground in careless thought, she clicked her tongue. Napoleon smiled in apology and stood to follow the unspoken instruction.

“Belinda Grace,” she said seemingly satisfied. She made no move to shake his hand.

That is alright, Napoleon thought. There is no rush.

“Pleasure to meet you, Grace,” he said.

In the low light he could only just see the amused twinkle in her eyes. She nodded at him, and left.

Napoleon watched her walk along the paths and disappear into the city. He sighed and leaned back, stretching his arms above his head with a light smile on his face. He watched the stars now shining brightly despite the city lights. He was going to enjoy this immensely.

They fell into a routine quickly. Napoleon would bring a cigar every other evening. The cigars all had different origins, and with them they traded tales of travel. Some evenings, not more than a sentence. Other times, the stories would take up the full hour. Conversation was easy. Grace knew much more of the world than he would ever ever be able to— his world until this point had been one of survival. It is hard to linger on the details when it is uncertain when the next meal will come. But Grace told of the world in careful fragments; the weaving women on the street corner of Nao Pang, the elegant flowers in the southern toundras, the maze like streets in the old depths of Italy.

Napoleon had spoken to people like this before. Those who, in complete security, are able to make space for the seemingly innocuous. Those who can value a sunset above a flock of sheep. But Grace did not talk of the world like it was an oyster of which she was owed its pearls, but like she understood the precious worth of small experiences.

This was not a point Napoleon had reached yet— the world had ever only left him rotten flesh so he would pry each pearl from the clutches of those who hoarded them. Because life is not fair therefore he would make it at least more pleasurable for himself. But the way Grace spoke withheld the jealous resentment conversations like these would usually create within him. And without it, he found himself telling more truths than he should.

It was hard not to, when Grace’s voice was laced with such a deep nostalgic happiness. She seemed content with her memories, and delighted to be able to share them.

On the days he didn’t bring cigars, Napoleon brought his sketchbook. Those evenings were spent in quiet solitude, with Grace occasionally looking over to assess his progress.

After a month of this — of stories, sketches and truths too many to count — Napoleon was struggling. He had used his last bills that morning. His first con alone and he’d spend it eating through his savings with conscious ignorance, barely trying to convince himself that the next day the break would be coming. If it had been a group job, they would’ve cut their losses long before. There was no reason to keep returning. Grace did not seem inclined to invite him to his home, or to progress their relationship further in any other way. She was many things, but a good mark she was not, and Napoleon couldn’t even blame his pride for not giving up on it.

Because he’d been given a chance, and hadn’t taken it. Two days ago, Grace had embraced him, and told him she’d be visiting a friend for two days. She’d assured him she would be back before the sundown, and bring some novel cigars back.

The house had been empty, all that time.

Yesterday, Napoleon had walked past it.

It wouldn’t be the score he’d been looking for. A burglary, however lucrative it could be at times, was a hassle. He did not have the connections to fence off his gains immediately, which would be the entire reason for a con like this in the first place. You don’t need to worry about something being traced if it was given freely. And Grace has much to give, and no one to give it to. But after all this time Napoleon had to accept that despite his efforts, he would not fit that role. So though it had not been his original plan, a burglary would be the only option he had.

And yet, Napoleon had walked back to the park, leaving the home untouched. He sat there, alone, until 5am and he could no longer feel his feet. The next day he came back, and Grace was there, smiling, holding out a cigar.

“It was good to see her again— my friend, that is— but my god, that was one too many grandchildren for any old soul to keep up with.”

Napoleon laughed.

“You laugh but with my hip? Toddlers are a mortal peril.” She shook her head, blew another circle, and chuckled to herself.

Napoleon sighed quietly. He could not stay here. His stomach was rumbling and the hotel would be kicking him out any day now. He needed to find something else, quickly. But he did not want to return to a world where the only beauty that mattered was the one that paid the bills. He desperately wanted to stay here and pretend sunsets, cigars and conversation could sustain him.

Grace looked at him— a shrewd look, and then she smiled. “You know, when I came back home, I was almost surprised everything was where it should be, but now I realise that I shouldn’t have even allowed myself that modicum of doubt.”

Napoleon’s eyes snapped to her.

“You see, I did not invite you for tea at the beginning of our acquaintance because I was convinced you would rob my lovely home empty and I had a slight aversion to that happening,” she continued, her smile widening. “But then I realised that you were more ambitious than that— more invested.”

Whatever Napoleon’s expression became, it led Grace to chuckle once more.

“Your mistake, of course, was mistaking a woman who is alone for a lonely woman.” She pulled from her cigar before continuing. “You’ve been trying to address a problem where there is none. The idea is to trade companionship for gratitude— gratitude expressed through material means. But the old woman who sits alone on a park bench is not the target you’re after, dear. You need to find the old woman who sits alone in _her room_. The ones who no longer see themselves as part of society. And though they think they have accepted the inevitability of such a thing, they are completely miserable with it. You have to do is bring society to them; make them feel like they’re allowed to belong still. They will give you everything for that.”

Napoleon took a deep breath, but was utterly unable to speak. There were too many questions for any to pass his lips— and, as a final blockade, humiliation sad high in his throat as he realised that if there had been any con at all, he’d been the mark. Not Grace.

“Am I right to assume that, if I were extend an invitation to you now, at this point in our friendship, no pearls of mine shall disappear?” she said, patting one of Napoleon’ clenched fists gently.

The air rushed out of Napoleon’s lungs. He nodded sharply.

“How lovely.” Grace’s eyes twinkled. “I must say, it has been interesting to be on the other side of this, however unfortunate in its execution this attempt was. Honestly dear, it will need some work.”

She sounded like she was admonishing him for littering, so completely blasé that it shook something loose in Napoleon. He doubled over and started laughing— at her expression, at his idiocy, at the sequence of utter improbabilities that lead him to try to con a conwoman.

Gasping for breath, he got out eventually, “It seems then that you will bring a certain society to me, then. Because apparently I have fooled myself into thinking I’ve ever belonged among your ranks.”

“No dear—“ She reached over and patted his arm. “In some way, you knew to find me, and not only that— you knew to listen. Not many of you young ones have the patience to appreciate life outside of our little games, but you can. That will be your gift, dear. You’re learning to enjoy the world, and once you do you only have to share it. This is what will draw people to you. You have to cultivate it.”

Then she stood abruptly. “But more I cannot say— advice must be saved for tea. Come, you haven’t eaten well in days. There is a bar at the corner and I’ve been ravenous for a burger.”

Napoleon followed and a new routine set itself forth.

Saturdays at noon: tea, and crime.

———

 _Darjeeling white tea_ \- Let the truth be the _base_ of your stories, but don’t let them be your stories. Protect the memories you have to people you trust so you have something to share of yourself that yet has meaning. Don’t throw them away for the sake of strangers.

 _Jasmine_ – Do not use your pull the very first night of contact on a long con. The cigars were clever but betrayed your intentions to me.

 _Oolong tea_ – Do not assume the nature of a relationship from only titles. Use body language and sentimental objects. For example: he never bought me a ring, but let one of his lackey’s get one for me. She’d stayed with me, even after everything fell apart. I wear it for her.

 _Rooibos_ – You need to work on your face, dear. If you cannot feign surprise truthfully, make a joke of it. Exaggerate it to the point of caricature.

 _Chamomile tea_ – Learn to poker, learn to cheat. But learn how to lose as well, not for a con or for a game. Just go play and lose, over and over, until your pride is beaten out of you. It will get you killed.

 _Yerba mate_ – Forging documents is where the true money lies, but it is a boring, tedious job. If you find yourself a forger, only trust those who seem like they spend reading telephone books as a pastime. This is how you separate ones only in it for the money from the experts who will obsess over the smallest details.

 _Spearmint_ – Do not in any circumstances try to be perfect. People can reek falsehood from a mile away and perfection is the first step towards that. This day and age has only worsened this. Faults make you human and trustworthy.

 _Lipton Yellow label tea_ \- You will not have many friends to keep close in this life, but do not mistake solitude for protection. You will need people with certain talents. You will need to built up loyalties and connections. Without it you will be blind and vulnerable.

 _Green tea_ \- There is one mistake greater than falling in love: falling in love and not telling me about it.

———

It was not like Napoleon had been avoiding it. There had just been a lot on his mind lately, so he could honestly say with 89% certainty that he had not been actively denying the inevitable. If there had been any denial going on, it was most likely subconscious. In either case, the reprieve would not hold forever. Illya had been out of the hospital for over two weeks now and judging from the score tally above the shooting range, he’d regained full control of his right arm, just like the doctors had said he would.

Napoleon carefully did not think about flayed skin, the odd angle of an elbow, or blood dyeing a dirty rug. Instead he thought about a desperate kiss, a promise and then later — Hours. Days. Hyperventilating in a waiting room with red stains on his cuffs — a hospital-bed confession.

A shadow shook Napoleon out of his thoughts— Illya, in his space, taking the ear protectors off Napoleon’s head and putting them carefully away. Behind him the screen displayed a perfect score. Napoleon shuddered. If he’d been minutes later—

“Cowboy,” Illya murmured. His expression had been deservedly smug, but now became more subdued, mixing with a hint of concern. “You think too much.”

Napoleon huffed. He allowed Illya to tilt his chin up and indulged himself by leaning into the touch. The shooting range was deserted. There were cameras but they did not cover the very last booth. Napoleon had always kept a careful mind map of blind-spots at HQ, but it was only recently he’d had the opportunity to make such use of them.

“You can make me stop, Peril. I know you can,” Illya speaking in a bad imitation of Napoleon’s dulcet tones. The ones he put on whenever he’d got the idiotic idea to flirt at Illya in earnest. It almost never worked— that is if one were to count the resulting laughter as failure. Napoleon had learned he did not.

Illya traced his fingers over Napoleon’s jawline before fitting his palm over it, his fingertips caressing the shell of Napoleon’s ear. Then his free hand curled around the front of Napoleon’s shirt and _pulled,_ pressing them close with casual possession. Illya leaned in and kissed him— not a kiss of desperation the first had been, or the second and the third for very different reasons. Illya kissed him deeply— passionately, but unhurried. Every movement of his lips were emboldened with a quiet confidence that there would be another kiss waiting for him, after. That he was entitled— and Napoleon was too.

The worst mistake was not falling in love, Napoleon knew. He’d forgiven himself long ago for that one. Even before Illya revealed that he’d failed their profession in the exact same way. Now it was hard to see it as a mistake at all, when it had given him this.

But that did not change the fact he had been making a worse mistake for a long time. He needed to address it before forgiveness was no longer possible, no matter the amounts of tea and cigars.

So when Illya broke away, a soft smile lingering on his face, Napoleon took a deep breath and said,

“I want you to meet someone.”


End file.
